


My 9 to 5 is Cutting Open Old Scars

by TheGirlWithThePuffHat



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AH YES, Abuse of italics, Again, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angsty Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Author Projecting onto Crowley (Good Omens), Author Would Like To Confirm Their Obsession With Fall Out Boy, Author is Asexual, Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Being an Angel (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Being Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Contemplates Stuff, Crowley Has Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crying Crowley (Good Omens), Finley Cannot Tag, First Kiss, Getting Together, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Holy Water, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I Wrote This While Listening To Fall Out Boy, I'm Sorry, Internal Monologue, Italics, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out in the Bentley (Good Omens), Not much plot, Oh look, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Scene: Soho 1967 (Good Omens), Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens), Sad Crowley (Good Omens), Scene: Soho 1967 (Good Omens), The Bentley Ships It (Good Omens), Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), YOLO, because, because let’s be real i can’t write a fic without crowley crying, but in a good way yaknow, i wrote this as a form of procrastination, lots of crowley thoughts, maybe? - Freeform, mostly crowley being a dramatic poetic shit, no beta we saunter vaguely downwards like Crowley, oh well, poetic crowley, that’s not relevant why did i tag that, the happy ending is definitely there but i don’t know if it counts as angst, title is a fall out boy lyric, what did aziraphale mean by “you go too fast for me”, what the FUCK it’s like theres more tags than fic, where is my holy trinity of fic tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25710763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGirlWithThePuffHat/pseuds/TheGirlWithThePuffHat
Summary: Guess who’s feeling like writing some miserable Crowley feels? About after “you go too fast for me”? Me. That’s who. This was one hundred percent self indulgent, but I figured I might as well put it up here.Or:“The thermos, humming in Crowley’s fingers as though it was alive, became mundane, became irrelevant, became invisible, because—You. You’re my holy water.You destroy me.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 80





	My 9 to 5 is Cutting Open Old Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I’m still Finley, I’m still asexual as fuck, and I’m still happy to welcome you to a fic of miserable, pining Crowley. I... got a bit emotional writing it, so I apologize in advance for whatever new waves of sympathy y’all might still be able to summon for our poor demon. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve written/thought about this scene and its alternatives. 
> 
> But, me being me, there’s gonna be a happy ending no matter how depressing the beginning is, because… my boys. So yeah, this is my promise that they will end up all cute and soft and Crowley will cry and I’m not sorry. 
> 
> Title is from Fourth of July by Fall Out Boy. I almost named this fic “I’m sorry every song’s about you,” from the same song, but the more relevant lyrics were from a different part of the song, so I didn’t. 
> 
> Happy reading! I hope you like it.

_ My 9 to 5 is cutting open old scars _

_ Again and again till I’m stuck in your head _

_ Had my doubts but I let them out _

_ You are the drought _

_ And I’m the holy water you have been without _

_ And all my thoughts of you _

_ They could heat or cool the room _

_ And now don’t tell me you’re fine _

_ Oh, honey you don’t have to lie _

_ Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any of it _

_ I just got too lonely, lonely, woah _

_ In between being young and being right _

_ You were my Versailles at night _

_ —Fourth of July, by Fall Out Boy _

There were a lot of things “too fast” about Crowley.

The way he drove his Bentley, as though he was always running away; the way he walked, as though his body couldn’t quite keep up; the way he talked, tripping over words so he twisted his ankles trying to stay upright; the way he gestured with his hands, frantically, as though he was still making stars.

The way his thoughts were a waterfall, spilling, rushing, pouring over him and soaking his entire being,  _ endless;  _ they kept him awake until it  _ hurt, _ they made him think and overthink and overthink again, and they made him and his soul turn around and twist and  _ undulate _ and  _ no, you’re not lost, whyever would you think that?  _ They caged him in, they clawed at him, and then they held him close and told him to  _ pretend, pretend, pretend, _ because things couldn’t be hopeless if you’d never had hope at all.

Crowley was too quick to judge, too quick to run, too quick to say whatever popped into his head. He raced himself through eras and styles and  _ people _ at a pace no one should try to exceed or even meet. Sometimes his momentum caused those eras and styles and people to catch on the ends of his hair and trail out behind him like ribbons, like fire, like memories, and when he turned around in an attempt to see them, they whipped away like a dress with a twirly hem, causing him to get so dizzy, he worried he would fall again.

_ He went too fast. _

Aziraphale, though, had always been there to catch his arm, to drag him back, to say  _ look at this, see its beauty, know that it is not permanent, savor it.  _ Aziraphale was warmth: his waistcoats and tartan and books, his  _ smiles, _ and he was the only timeless thing Crowley knew, if he didn’t count his own miserable, encompassing love. 

Aziraphale was probably worried that he too would catch on Crowley’s hair and subsequently catch on fire, not unlike that church back in 1941, where it seemed the only thing that hadn’t burned was the bag of books. 

Everything else in that church? Incinerated. The floor, the pews, the altar, the Nazis, the holy water. Crowley’s feet. He’d saved the books because he knew Aziraphale wouldn’t, because  _ Aziraphale _ didn’t have spontaneous,  _ too fast _ thoughts like that, and even in the rare times he did, he didn’t act on them. 

Aziraphale floated, drifted, stopped to smell the roses; he appreciated things, he valued them, he  _ loved _ them, and so they loved him in return, loved him to balance his calm chaos and organized madness. Who was Crowley to try to shun that? To look at something it was impossible not to love and  _ not love it? _

There was nothing calm about Crowley’s chaos as he bounced around, occasionally reaching down to grasp at some Earthly thing, before gravity kicked him out and he hit his head on the universe again. Every time that happened, his head spun, and eventually he gave up, because roses didn’t really have a memorable smell in the first place. 

The holy water in the thermos in his hands seemed to mock him. It was as clear as it was deadly, and yet, in its iridescence, all he could see in it was his reflection, broken and ready to give up. It was as though Aziraphale wanted him to stop, to pause, to  _ breathe, _ before he kept running away, to stop going too fast. Crowley wasn’t sure he could. He wanted to, he wanted to slow down so much it  _ hurt his entire being, _ but the ground wasn’t solid enough, and he was afraid to stop so abruptly, because skidding on his heels didn’t help his situation. He would crash and burn no matter what he did.

But this, he marveled, this wasn’t crash or burn. This was bottled danger, contained emptiness, a quiet explosion, and it would destroy him entirely. 

No. 

It wouldn’t, not really. It would kill him, and destroy his body, but it would not destroy him, as he was, already so thoroughly destroyed by Aziraphale, by the world, by himself. 

_ Have you ever fallen? _ he wanted to ask.  _ Have you ever fallen in love? They’re not so different, you know. _ He may not have Fallen for asking too many questions, but God had made it clear that he did, in fact, ask too many questions. He didn’t care about the answers, not really; he just wanted the freedom, to not have to keep the words in their cramped cages in his chest. He wanted to let them fly away, to have the chance to be forgotten. 

_ Have you ever wanted something more than it’s possible to want anything?  _

_ Have you ever felt like you don’t belong anywhere?  _

_ Have you ever felt the need to apologize for making someone smile, because that smile is so murderously beautiful?  _

_ Have you ever realized that it’s okay to not be okay, because there is someone just as not okay as you?  _

_ Have you ever closed your eyes and seen a face, a pair of eyes, felt the ghost of a voice on your skin?  _

_ Have you ever had a dream?  _

_ A nightmare? _

_ Do the colors follow someone around so much that everything seems gray when they’re gone? _

_ Have you ever lit yourself on fire? _

_ Cause that’s what it’s like, you know. _

_ Being in love with you. _

Crowley stared at the tartan thermos a bit more, felt his heartbeat through it. It was a wonder he still had a heartbeat, really, especially considering how many beats it had skipped over the years. It was a wonder his body still worked at all, considering how fast he went. His hands trembled, his hips swayed, his legs faltered, his throat closed up, his eyes watered (oh, there were tears streaming down his face now); his heart beat and beat and beat and kicked and screamed, and somehow it never tired. His heart was a  _ monster; _ it was more of a demon than he would ever be. More of a demon than he  _ wanted _ to be.

_ It would destroy you.  _ He nearly laughed. _ That’s funny, angel, because we both know that this, literal holy water, isn’t really my holy water. The closest thing to it is _ —the thermos, humming in Crowley’s fingers as though it was alive, became mundane, became irrelevant, became invisible, because—

_ You. You’re my holy water. _

_ You destroy me. _

His shoulders shook. It was about time, really: he hadn’t had a good cry since 1862, which made this rather ironic. It had started with holy water, and it ended with it, too. To be fair, he’d cried in 1862 because of Aziraphale claiming to not need him, claiming their friendship was mere fraternizing, claiming he didn’t need Crowley, as though Crowley didn’t need him, as though Crowley could stand on his own two legs without him, as though Crowley didn’t  _ live off the air he’d already breathed.  _

It wasn’t like there was anything he could’ve said, either. What could he say? What did anyone say, in a situation like that? Things didn’t exist because you  _ told _ them to. Love didn’t hurt less because you said it should. God might’ve played an ineffable game with the universe, but She was the only one who could. Everyone else? Well, they were at the mercy of existence, and there were a select few who had it for eternity. Eternity was the buzzing of your peripheral vision—it wasn’t  _ there, _ exactly, but then where was it? Where was nowhere?

Crowley thought he knew the answer, after spending so many years trying to lock his feelings away there. It was somewhere between indifference and stubborn ignorance, but no matter where you were, it was right there, like déjà vu with claws.

But when it came down to it, those were just other questions that he’d been too late to ask, and now would spend too much time mulling over the answers. You might ask, if he has eternity, how much time is too much? And that, right there, circles us back to Crowley’s current problem. Eternity is  _ infinite, _ so no matter how much he thinks, it won’t be enough. It will evacuate from his mind eventually, and no matter how far into the future that  _ eventually _ is, it will be gone, and it will be gone too fast. Rather like Aziraphale, who left behind nothing but a crying demon, the slam of a car door, the slight scent of ozone and old books, and a thermos full of complications that didn’t quite fit.

Crowley thought about scars, their histories, how they’d been wounds and had healed  _ wrong, _ had healed  _ messy, _ and what right did they have, reminding him so much of himself? Scars were evidence of hardship, adversity, like signs that read  _ I survived, I survived, I survived, _ and that scared him. Surviving was one thing; anyone could do it, if they remembered to breathe. Scars didn’t say anything about living, about flourishing, about happily ever after. And Crowley was selfish, because he wanted to take one breath that didn’t make him want to apologize for having lungs, because he wanted his heart to beat once without his entire body  _ hurting. _

Crowley’s body might not have many scars of its own, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t mangled beyond repair, twisted into knots, bloodied, left in the darkest of dark corners. Every time he thought he’d accepted that he was unlovable, something else reminded him that  _ he was unlovable, _ and he hated himself a little bit more. 

But Aziraphale,  _ dear God, Aziraphale… _ he was like the sun, because he loved everybody, and when someone did something terrible, he loved their potential; like the sun again, his light may not always shine, but it was always  _ there, _ even if it seemed to be halfway across the planet. And somehow, he managed to tolerate Crowley’s darkness anyway, and his smile didn’t even falter. He  _ trusted _ Crowley, at least enough to give him something so destructive, something that wouldn’t cause Armageddon, but would end their world just the same.

Crowley thought about trust, its fragility and its sturdiness, the way it sometimes formed in a blink and sometimes in a decade, the way it was invisible until you needed it and then it never went away. It could be a simple thing, or it could leave you standing on the side of a cliff and wondering  _ when did that person become so important, _ wondering when your heart had opened. It hurt, letting your heart open; it had to be seamless, and any fracture on either side would cause the whole thing to crumble. You had to trust that it wouldn’t. And that was one of the hardest things to do.

The fact that Aziraphale trusted him enough to give him something that could kill him was no small feat, because that meant Aziraphale had to trust himself too, had to know that Crowley was in danger and that it wouldn’t matter, because they trusted each other. Crowley knew he wouldn’t break that trust, and he had to trust that Aziraphale wouldn’t either. 

He thought about time, then, and how things rose and fell with it, how maybe it wasn’t that  _ Crowley _ went too fast, but rather that time went too fast around him, that time was the river and he was a rock in the center of it, and Aziraphale couldn’t make it across to him. And maybe, bathed in the glow of Aziraphale’s light, the river of time looked like a sunset, looked like fire, looked like Crowley’s hair, and the angel got lost in it. 

Maybe Crowley went too fast because he was afraid of drowning, and Aziraphale couldn’t keep up because he  _ wasn’t, _ because he  _ wouldn’t, _ because he could let himself drift; Crowley couldn’t drift without the current twisting him upside down and knocking him against every rock in his path.

He thought about distance, and how it didn’t really  _ matter, _ but that didn’t stop it from  _ stinging.  _ How with every  _ millimeter _ that separated him from Aziraphale, he would have to stretch a mile to reach him. And he cried a little bit harder, because even if he managed to reach Aziraphale, it would just lead to him being pushed even further away, into the cold, into his own mind, into the parts of him he didn’t want to look at. But they were there, those parts of him, and they would hit him and hit him and hit him, they would jeer and laugh at him, they would say  _ you aren’t worth it, you are awful, you are hated, you are nothing, _ and he would shake, he would tremble, he would fall, he would say  _ you’re right, you’re right, you’re right…. _

There was distance between them now, no matter the definition in mind. Aziraphale had probably walked back to his bookshop by now, while Crowley sat in his Bentley; Crowley was more certain than ever that Aziraphale hated him, that Aziraphale never wanted to see him again, because  _ why would he give him the holy water if he didn’t, deep down, want Crowley to use it?  _ If he didn’t, deep down, wish Crowley was gone for good?

Crowley didn’t blame him. If he were Aziraphale, he would want himself gone for good, too. He wouldn’t want his own snark, his pessimism, his questions, his chaos. Aziraphale was an angel, and Crowley was a demon, and Aziraphale was perfect and beautiful, and Crowley was— 

“I’m  _ fucked,” _ he choked out, and let his tears soak him, swamp him, blind him, the way Aziraphale did, the way Aziraphale  _ didn’t even know _ he did; he’d been doing it since Eden, blinding Crowley, so of course they’d fallen into a pattern. Of course Aziraphale glowed and breathed out all of the colors in the world, and of course Crowley tore himself apart trying not to  _ need him so desperately. _ It was ironic, in a way, that Crowley needed Aziraphale to stop himself from needing Aziraphale.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted, hitting his head on the steering wheel. The thermos shook slightly on the ground. “I’m fucked, I’m fucked, I’m absolutely, utterly, totally—”

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale’s voice came from outside the car. “Are you just going to sit in there all night long?” 

Crowley’s head shot up. Really, his entire body sprang to attention, his spine jolting upright uncomfortably, so it took his eyes a moment to focus on Aziraphale through his sunglasses. 

“Angel,” he croaked, wiping his face. “Wha…?”

“Oh, dearest, why are you crying?” Aziraphale opened the door and got back into the car. “If this is about the holy water, I can—”

“No, no, angel, it’s jus’... whaddaya mean, I go too fast?” Crowley stared resolutely straight ahead, because whatever happened next, he was going to freeze, and he wanted to be in a reasonable position when that happened.

“I mean, of course, that after everything I’ve gone through tonight, I couldn’t possibly stomach your usual speed,” Aziraphale said, as though it should’ve been obvious.  _ “Really, _ my dear, I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: you  _ cannot _ go 90 miles per hour in central London. What did you think I meant?”

Crowley began to laugh, and hated himself even more for it. He collapsed bonelessly on top of the wheel, causing the horn to complain loudly, and laughed and cried until he couldn’t breathe, then kept going, because he didn’t really  _ need _ to breathe, and since Aziraphale was already oxygen, it wasn’t like he could in the first place. 

“Now what, may I ask, is so prodigiously funny?”

“World’s upside down, angel. Must’a hit my head or somethin’,” Crowley managed, and the look on Aziraphale’s face was so soft, so warm, so  _ I don’t care that you’re broken, _ Crowley really couldn’t help himself. He flung his arms around his angel, letting his head fall against his shoulder, letting his problems and fears and shattered edges fall against him too, and Aziraphale caught him, caught  _ everything, _ and Crowley was safe, safe,  _ safe, _ for the first time since Eden.

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered. “I had no idea.”

Crowley was confused for a moment before he realized in horror that  _ safe _ meant  _ no walls _ , and  _ no walls _ meant all of his secret feelings were pouring out into the air, and Aziraphale was breathing them in,  _ breathing in poison, _ and he wasn’t dying. He didn’t even let go of Crowley. 

“Why do you hate yourself so much?” Aziraphale asked, even more quietly. “Crowley….”

“Nah, angel, I’ll explain tomorrow,” Crowley said thickly, muffling his voice and his doubts in Aziraphale’s lovely soft stomach. “Jus’... hold me?”

“Always.”

And Crowley  _ sobbed, _ because  _ always _ meant  _ forever, _ meant  _ eternity, _ meant filling the emptiness that was growing inside him with things he actually wanted there. It meant  _ I am here, _ it meant  _ you are not alone, _ it meant  _ I see your brokenness _ and it meant  _ I will try to fix it. _ Crowley could not think of anything else to ask for. To someone who dared to hope, it may have meant  _ I love you _ as well, but Crowley’s hope and those three words were quickly swallowed down, back to nowhere, where they had belonged for nearly six thousand years now and where he told them to belong for the foreseeable future.

But you can’t always belong where you’re told you should. Crowley knew that better than anyone.  _ Should _ wasn’t always best, wasn’t always good, wasn’t always where you should be at all. It wasn’t where you could prosper. Crowley had been told he belonged in a multitude of places. First, he belonged in Heaven. Then he belonged in Hell, because he wasn’t good enough for Heaven—then, in Hell, he was told he belonged in Heaven because he wasn’t demonic enough for Hell. Eventually, with people talking at him from all sides, he decided he belonged nowhere, and ran for the hills.

But now? Now Aziraphale was holding him, keeping him from running away, reminding his heart to beat. Warm breath on the crown of his head, warm arms around him, warm words thawing the ice that caked his ribs. Warm, warm, warm, and Crowley was still sobbing, and sobbing, and sobbing, but he didn’t mind as much anymore. The dam was broken now, and he swore by all of his unholiness that it would never be rebuilt.

“Always?” he asked, just to be sure.

“Always,” Aziraphale confirmed calmly.

_ “Always,”  _ Crowley repeated, then shuddered and twisted to press closer to his angel. “You know I didn’t want it for me, yeah?”

“What  _ did _ you want it for?” 

“‘N case Hell ever came after me. Insurance. You thought I meant I could kill myself with it, right? I wouldn’t, angel. Too much I would miss. Too much I could never let go.”

It may have been his imagination, but it felt like Aziraphale squeezed him just that much tighter, just that much closer to a world that wouldn’t shut him out, a world that cared, and if Crowley closed his eyes tight enough, it was just that much easier to look into the dark and pretend, pretend, pretend. 

Crowley figured people looked into the dark because it was harder to see what you were scared of. There could be universes in the dark, and you could only sleep if you accepted the existence of those universes. People weren’t afraid of the dark. They were afraid of what lurked behind it.

“You… yaknow that. That I…” Crowley started, and then the words became too sticky in the back of his throat. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered back.

“So.” He cleared his throat. “‘S it alright if I—”

_ “Yes,” _ Aziraphale said again, and his voice was fresh air in the winter, rain after a drought, the moon after a storm, light, light,  _ light _ , and Crowley leaned in so close he should’ve gotten burned, so close Aziraphale should’ve pushed him away, should’ve said  _ no, _ should’ve said  _ you’re a demon, you are horrible, you are disgusting, and I want nothing to do with you, _ but he didn’t, he didn’t, he _ didn’t, _ and the next thing Crowley knew, they were  _ kissing, _ and all the thoughts of  _ too fast _ left his head at the speed of light.

He tasted salt and stardust, tears and safety; he tasted the edges of the universe, the air after it rained, and  _ oh, the world has color again;  _ he tasted midnight and magic and  _ Aziraphale, _ and that was probably the simplest and most complex flavor he could ever imagine. He twisted in Aziraphale’s arms, winding himself around the angel in the most snakelike manner his human corporation could muster, and then Aziraphale was pulling his sunglasses off _ —“really, my dear, you don’t have to wear these around me”— _ and, well, who needed oxygen, anyway?

Certainly not Crowley, who decided that from here on out, his life force came from Aziraphale. He didn’t pause to consider whether or not such a decision actually changed anything, because  _ God and Satan and everybody else, _ Aziraphale was kissing him.

Kissing him.

And kissing him.

And kissing him.

And Crowley snapped his fingers, so they found themselves in the backseat of the Bentley, because Crowley would be damned (well, damned again, if that was possible) if he didn’t savor this, if he didn’t enjoy this while it lasted, because he had no idea when it would end.

In the back of his mind, a tiny piece of him noted that maybe that was what Aziraphale had been trying to get him to do for millenia: to savor, to live in the present, to let every moment explode, explode,  _ explode, _ because each moment only happened once. Luckily for Crowley, it was hard to think about the future when the  _ present _ included angel kisses (freckles crossed his mind, and he found he didn’t care) and angel hands in his long hair, and an angel’s bowtie coming undone in his fingers. 

“Love you,” Crowley tried to say into Aziraphale’s mouth. “Love you  _ so fucking much.”  _ He waited a beat, relishing the taste of their kisses, before pulling away to add: “Don’t really want to do any  _ actual _ fucking, though.”

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale replied. “Neither do I.” 

“Like this, though. Kissing. Kissing’s good. And cuddles. ‘N I like it when you play with my hair, ‘n holding hands, and… and I  _ love _ you, angel.” His voice went soft. “Loved you since. Since everything, really.”

“I love you too, Crowley.” Aziraphale smiled in that  _ way _ he did, the way that made Crowley see colors, the way that made him look at himself and think  _ it’s okay to not be okay, it’s okay to not be okay, it’s okay to not be okay.  _ It was the smile that made him want to cry, but in the happiest way possible. Aziraphale pressed Crowley into the seat back, and Crowley melted, melted,  _ melted, _ into him, into every press of his perfect lips, into the cracked edges of him that were slowly beginning to look less like broken glass and more like a puzzle piece, waiting to fit against the broken pieces of Crowley and make them both whole again.

And if their mouths weren’t occupied, perhaps one of them would’ve said what they were both thinking, which went along the lines of:  _ angels and demons are naturally sexless unless they want to make an effort, but…. _

_ Loving you? _

_ That has always been effortless. _

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!! Comments and kudos are always appreciated. I hope everyone’s having a good day! :)


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